Kharzun is a tall, spare outsider who looks carved from old kiln stone and blackened brass. His skin has the matte texture of cooled ash, yet when the light catches him it glints like polished coin beneath soot. He moves with a stiff, economical stride, each gesture clipped and deliberate, as if he resents every unnecessary inch of motion. One shoulder bears a formal mantle of immaculate white feathers, absurdly pristine against the grime on the rest of him. His face is stern and narrow, with a mouth that seems permanently set to pronounce sentences no one likes hearing. The strangest detail is his hands, which are elegant and ringed like a scholar's, except for the fingertips, which are capped in faintly glowing iron nails.